


Bath Time

by RogerTaylorCanRawMe



Series: Queen One-Shots [8]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Bath Time, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hair Washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 03:03:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerTaylorCanRawMe/pseuds/RogerTaylorCanRawMe
Summary: Roger comes home from tour in a disgusting state. So he needs... disinfecting.





	Bath Time

Roger trudged through the door, dumping his bags on the mat. The smell of flowers and fresh laundry wafted through the hall. It was a stark contrast to the tour bus he had spent a month cooped up in. It was light and clean, and most of all, it was home. “Darling!” He called, eyes searching for any sign of movement. He paused for a moment. Taking two small steps further in, he called out again, “Darling, I’m home!”

Then he heard your footsteps. Racing down the stairs. Eager to greet him. A big smile on your face. The kind that makes your eyes narrow, and your cheeks puff out. You were an absolute vision to him. The corners of his mouth perked up, his eyes widened. He held out his arms, straight out, to pull you in to a bone crusher of a hug. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, rubbing your back. “Let me take a good look at you.” He thrust you away from him, his eyes working overtime, absorbing every detail of your face in awe. “God, you’re beautiful. So beautiful,” he continued, taking you in for another hug.

“You smell like the zoo, Rog,” you mumbled against his chest. “When did you last have a bloody bath?”

His laugh seemed to rattle in his chest. “I can’t remember,” he admitted. 

You looked up at him, flashing a woeful look. You reached up to stroke his bleached blonde hair, carding your fingers through the wiry strands. And then your fingers got stuck.

“Ow!” Roger yelped, batting your hand away. He was always such a drama queen.

You grimaced. His hair felt disgusting. “And how much hairspray did you use on this mop of your’s? Have you even washed it since you left?” You asked, being more gentle as your stroked his hair.

He leaned in to your touch, like a cat begging for scratches. “Can’t remember. I’ve gone through three big bottles this tour alone. It’s all worth it,” he rambled, his eyes fluttering shut. “I look wonderful.”

“Yeah, you big stinker,” you mocked. “Can I wash this? I’m dying to see what you actually look like, Rog.”

He gave a nervous laugh, screwing up his face at the thought. “No chance, Darling. The hair stays like this. Always.”

Half an hour later, and Roger was sitting in the empty bath tub, knees pulled up to his chest. 

You had poured him a bath akin to the fiery depths of hell. You bathed him and quizzed him all about the tour. From partying with Elton John to Freddie’s outlandish stage outfits. He answered all your questions with glee, enjoying being pampered. The steam hung thick in the air as the water drained away. “I’m probably going to leave a tide mark,” Roger joked, tapping his fingers against his shins. The cold air hit him as the warm blanket of bubbles depleted. Now it was time to wash his hair.

“Lean back,” you instructed, filling a jug of lukewarm water from the basin.   
Roger leaned his head back over the drain and you began to wet his hair. The feeling of the warm water down his back was so soothing. He let out a contented groan as your fingers massaged his scalp. The buildup of hairspray turned sticky to your touch.

“See, it’s not so bad,” you said, squeezing a dollop of violet scented shampoo into your palm. 

“I bet you’ll have me looking like a prize fucking poodle in no time. Very respectable. Well I can’t be tamed.”

You lathered the shampoo and coated the lengths of his hair with it. Massaging it in. A smidge got in his eyes. 

“Ow!”

“Close your eyes, you dozy cow.”

Roger giggled, wiping his fingers over his eyes as you began to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. You poured jugfuls of water over his hair until the foam began to clear and his blonde strands squeaked. “Clean enough for you?” Roger asked, growing tired of being at your mercy. 

“I suppose I might let you shag me now I’m sure you’ve not dragged anything in with you.”

Roger’s mouth dropped open, looking at you, wondering where that line came from. “Wow,” he said blinking.

You leaned into him, nose to nose, smoothing wet strands from his face. “Show me how much you really missed me.”


End file.
